


An Equilibrium

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ridiculously long (older!)Arya/Jaqen drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one memory at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel odd for shipping these two since now the craze is all about gendry/arya but i really like this pairing and maybe some other people do too? I know you exist! Or at least I hope you do.
> 
> I couldn't help it. First fic. Sorry. Enjoy.

 

They lied awake together, their chests breathing in unison. Her head rested on his extended arm and despite being slick with sweat, she liked the feel of her skin against his. Hot against cold, she was iron and he, wine. She laughed as he whispered sweet things into her ear.

He was Jaqen again, whose hair was as red as a blood and held a contrasting silver-white lock on the side. She twirled locks of his hair as he spoke. His eyes were sky blue again. She loved the sound of his voice and his throaty laughter. She no longer asked him what his real face looked like because this was who he was for her. He chose to be the man from Lorath with a foreign purr to his voice though she no longer noticed it when they spoke to each other in Valyrian which was most of the time. Jaqen H’ghar was dead in name but he was right here, with her.

 

When he finally fell asleep, a habit he eventually developed when he began to feel more comfortable with her, she stayed awake. The crackling of the dying fire was the only sound that filled the room. That and Jaqen's breathing, which was accompanied by the soft heaving of his chest.

She thought of the first time they had seen each other again, years after Harrenhal. She had been No One back then. Having already been put on the field after her training, she had to wear the face of a beautiful, young girl who had thick, fat lips and long hair so blonde it looked white. She wondered what drove such a pretty girl to look for the gift. _Beautiful girls don’t always have it easier_ , thought No One, briefly seeing an image of a beautiful but sad girl with red hair, long and glorious. The image went as quickly as it came and No One continued going about with her assignment. Her task was to seduce a man who had raped dozens of young girls and later give him the gift. _It was a relatively simple task_ , she thought, _how difficult was it to seduce a raper?_

As it turns out, it had not been so simple. The man was rich and had many servant girls. Having posed as one, she learned that he was not as stupid as she once presumed. He always meticulously chose his victims, rather than picking them out at random. He would be kind and generous to all of his servant girls, winning their trust and loyalty. As they grew to have blind faith in the man they served, he would assault the youngest ones. He always observed them all, looking for the quietest or the shyest or the weakest. Whoever he deemed to fit his standards would be attacked eventually. The victims would obviously go to the others and tell them what he did. The other servant girls would refuse to believe them. They believed their master would never do such things and they often banished the girls.

A moon and some days passed and the man had quietly asked No One, who went by the name of Aztrid, to come empty his chamber pot. He smiled at her, as softly as possible and she realized why the girls before her had never suspected anything. _You don’t scare a lamb before you slaughter it_ , she thought, _you entice it and make it feel safe before you betray it._

She bowed silently and followed him to his chamber. It was not long ‘til the man flung her on to his bed and covered her mouth with his large hands. Aztrid had watched him in his sleep for weeks and she had been very aware of the dagger he kept under his pillow. As she feigned her surrender, he began to undress himself. She quickly slipped her hands to the dagger as he untied the laces of his smallclothes. Before he successfully untied the last knot, she kicked him hard in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. She bounced up and slit his throat before he managed to call for help. She held him ‘til she had seen a light go out in his light green eyes.

She put on the hood of her cloak and and climbed out of his window, crept up to the roof. She stayed in the shadows, waiting patiently for the other servants to find his body. When she finally heard the screams one by one, she silently leapt to the roof of the next house, knowing the little time she had to make her escape. The night was her friend, making her go as unnoticed as a ghost

Once she was at a safe distance, she looked back, making sure she was not being followed. And she wasn’t.

As she turned back to the direction she headed to, a man stood before her. He had soft black hair and dark green eyes that shone in the moonlight. His skin was dark and beautiful but it was his smile that caught her attention.

She had never seen him in her life but she knew that she did…somehow.

He swiftly uncloaked her and she smiled at his speed. She knew exactly who he was now.

 

“A man does not remember a girl being blonde.” He lightly picked up a lock of her hair and waved it in front of her, smirking as he did.

“A girl remembers a pale streak in a man’s hair,” she teased as she stood on her toes to properly look at his head and pretended to search for it.

“A man did not know that the House of Black and White partook in the doing of justice. Killing rapers today, punishing thieves tomorrow.” He grinned.

She shrugged. “One of the girls he attacked came and asked for the man to receive the gift. I only complied.”

“Did a girl enjoy killing that sort of man?”

“I’m good at it. All men must die and sometimes I like when men that deserve to die actually do. You’re not going to tell on me are you?” She flashed a devilish smile at him and he only chuckled.

“As beautiful as _Aztrid_ is, a man would very much like to see a girl’s true face. He does not know this Aztrid, he knows a different lovely girl.”

She raised a pair of thin, light eyebrows at him. “I am not very familiar with whoever you’re trying to be. I’ll show you my face if you show me yours.”

“A girl has never seen a man’s true face. A girl has only met a criminal from Lorath.”

“Then show me the Lorathi or I won’t show you the lost Westerosi.”

“The Lorathi is dead.”

“As is the girl.”

“Please.”

“No.”

He sighed. She figured he wasn’t going to change his face for her so she began to walk past him until a hand grabbed her arm, firmly but not violently.

As she turned back, she saw Jaqen H’ghar.

She laughed. Not the way Aztrid laughed, which was a shy giggle or the way No One laughed, which was more of a snort rather than a proper laugh. She laughed the way Arya Stark would laugh, loud and unladylike. 

 

They had been inseparable ever since.

Well not truly, since each had to leave Braavos for tasks from time to time but they’d eventually find their way back into their beds at odd hours of the night. Each reunion was much like the last, a soft but firm kiss and a couple of sleepy whispers were exchanged. In the morning that followed, they would make love as wildly or passionately as possible, depending how much desperation had built up during the time that they had been apart. Things would often go back to normal until they were met with another assignment that separated them. She was still No One when it counted but in the privacy of her own room, she was Arya and he was Jaqen.

 

When and how they decided to get romantically involved with each other was another memory for another night. Arya smiled to herself and curled tightly against Jaqen’s body and drifted off to sleep.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU where the Lannisters hadn't been dicks (i.e: pushed bran off the tower) and Ned had become Hand of the King. He hadn't meddled with knowing the true parentage of Joffrey Baratheon and remained alive. Cat and her youngest kids were all living in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should read the bottom notes after. Just a suggestion!

Two shadows danced in the dark halls and they might have gone unnoticed had Arya not stepped out in the middle of the night. But she had and she noticed them. She immediately gripped Needle’s pommel, the thin sword Jon Snow had given her six years ago and waited. “Who goes there?” She demanded, pleased at how menacing she sounded. _Like Father_ , she thought. 

The shadows froze and not a sound escaped. After a long beat, Arya almost turned around and left, but she heard Syrio’s words echo in her head. _Look with your eyes._  Her eyes had seen a hint of two figures hiding in the shadows, moving without sound but with purpose. She unsheathed Needle and got into her water dancer’s stance. She almost smiled, thinking of Sansa having scolded her more than once for keeping a sword with her at all times. _Well, well, well,_ she thought amusedly, but then she focused on the figures again. She called out, “Show yourselves.”

The pale light of the moon shone in through the stained glass windows of the Red Keep. But it only hit halfway, the other side was as still dark as night. The torches on the walls weren’t lit, as they always were especially in the nighttime. Still, Arya did not move and stared into the darkness. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_ , she reminded herself.

Two young, tall men in Gold Cloaks attire stepped out into the moonlight. They were distinct enough for Arya to know that she had never seen them before. One had a prominent nose, a violet colored beard and bright violet eyes to match. His skin was fair and his long hair was black. _Girls have probably swooned at the sight of him._ The other one had brilliant red hair.  _Not like Sansa’s or Mother’s_ , Arya thought, _but darker and richer._ What had caught her eye the most were the silver locks on one side that gleamed in the dim light. _He has a handsome face_ , she decided. There was a delicate nose, a narrow jaw and clear blue eyes that complimented his smooth, golden skin. The men immediately knelt after stepping out.

“A man has the honor of being Jaqen H’ghar, once from the Free City of Lorath,” the red haired one spoke first. His voice was deep and sultry with an accent from the East.

The other one spoke then, “I am Racqio, from the Free City of Braavos. They call me the Handsome Man,” he grinned with his head still bowed.

Arya studied the men. She looked with her eyes, these were two men that were clearly not from Westeros. Their way of speaking said that well enough. _What brought them here?  
_

“And to what do I owe the treat of meeting two men from the Free Cities all the way in King's Landing?” She inched Needle closer, ready to strike,

“A man and his travel companion were looking for a Lord Baelish.” The one who had introduced himself as Jaqen H’ghar spoke again. Arya noticed the look the one called Racqio gave him.

They whispered quickly to one another. This time they did not speak in the Common Tongue, perhaps so Arya wouldn’t understand.

“What are you doing?” demanded Racqio.

“A man must trust.” Jaqen calmly responded.

 “And why should he trust you?” Arya asked, speaking in High Valyrian herself.

The two looked up at her in disbelief but only Jaqen smiled after a pause. “A girl knows our language?” He looked fascinated.

Arya cocked her head to the side, amused at his expression. “You should not underestimate a girl who’s been trained by the First Sword of Braavos.”

Racqio raised his brows at her, “Syrio Forel has trained you, milady?”

“Yes, but I am no lady. Ladies do not hold swords and as you can see, you’re at the end of mine.”

Racqio nodded and stared back at the ground. He seemed tense now. Jaqen kept his gaze on her.

“You two are here for Lord Baelish? May I ask what for and why in the dead of the night?” Her voice still sounded menacing but softer now.

The men remained silent and suddenly, Arya understood.

“Has Littlefinger been meddling with the Iron Bank once again? That fool.” She put Needle back in its sheath.

Jaqen frowned as he observed, “A girl unarms herself even though she has understood our motives.”

“Littlefinger has constantly tried to betray my father and I do not like the way he looks at my mother or my sister. I will not stop you. Rise, I am no queen.”

The men rose cautiously. She snorted before saying “You have my word as a Stark. I will not speak of this. Now go, before someone else wakes.”

Racqio bowed his head, “The Stark girl is one of a kind. Thank you.” He then began to walk past her.

Arya returned her gaze to Jaqen who had been staring at her with a smirk on his face.

“It is true. The Stark girl is as lovely as she is special. It is not everyday that a man meets a girl in her nightgown with a sword in her hand. A deadly girl, no less. A man will treasure this memory.” He promised as he bowed his head.

Arya blushed when she remembered that she _had_ been in a thin white shift. Her widened eyes made him bite back a laugh but then he inched closer. Arya did not stop him or pull away, she found herself intrigued by his scent and how it smelled of leather, roses and something sweeter.

He kissed her hair gently and she found herself grateful at the fact that she brushed it earlier that night. He lightly lifted her chin up to his face. She met his gaze unwaveringly.

“Goodbye, Arya Stark.” His voice was only a whisper now.

She frowned. “But…I never told you my name.”

“I was always aware.” He leaned down to kiss her on the lips before disappearing past her.

She did not dare to look back; instead she touched her lips with the tips of her fingers and smiled despite herself.

She walked back to her chamber, no longer remembering why she got up in the first place. Sleep came easily to her.

The next morning, she awoke; shaking her head at the odd dream she had last night. It was not until her mother and sister had walked in that she was told of the news that Littlefinger had been found dead in his bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was fun to write.  
> Don't get me wrong, the plot to the books is what makes it SO great and i understand that ned had to die but part of me wondered WHAT IF he hadn't. Arya might have never met Jaqen at all sooooooo, I played with the concept of them meeting under different circumstances ok wow this is getting long, sorry, i hope you enjoy


	3. Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every other grey pales in comparison to the color of her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MODERN SETTING AU (where jaqen happens to living in the same apt building as arya don't kill me pls)/2ND PERSON POV/PAST AND PRESENT TENSES/WHY AM I YELLING

Now,

Every other grey pales in comparison to the color of her eyes. 

*

Back then,

You remember the day you first saw her. You caught a glimpse of her outside your window. She held a big box in her arms. She was with four other boys, three who looked alike, with red hair and freckles and one who looked like her. They laughed as they unloaded the moving truck. You wondered which one of them would be moving in the building, but then you went back to work.

*

Now,

Every pink is either too bright or too dark. Her soft lips are neither. Cherries.  

*

Back then,

You noticed it was only the girl that moved in. She sometimes rode on the same elevator as you. A university student, you could tell by the insignia on the sports bag she often had with her. Athletic. She always stepped off at the third floor, but you never spoke one word until she appeared at your door. 

*

Now,

Even her hair is difficult to capture in paint. Brown, vibrant and always tangled. A prayer of dark waves under your rough hands.

*

Back then,

"Jaqen?" She asked almost shyly. "H- well, I struggle with your last name, sorry." You offered a polite smile to the girl you've never introduced yourself to. She was there for a reason. "My family bought this complex and they asked me to go around and collect the rent," she smiled. She looked at your stained hands, "You're an artist?" That question alone led to a ten-minute conversation at your doorstep, which was odd for you. You never talked much yet you found yourself thinking of her even hours later. A clever girl with a certain curiosity, but there was more to her than that. You noticed the peculiar way her lips curved at certain words and that her smile reached her eyes and her laughter, how it was loud and unruly but contagious. Lovely girl.

*

Now,

If only you could paint the sweet gasps that escape her mouth when your tongue explores her or the little breathless laughs when you kiss the insides of her thighs when you finish or well, when _she_ does. If only you could paint the way she says your name, with unmistakable eagerness in her voice or the look she wears when she watches you work, hugging her knees in silence. Of course, you could _try_ to paint all those things, but it would never compare to the real thing. You stop trying to paint her when you accept that you can't. But it doesn't irk you, not anymore.

 *

Back then,

After that first encounter, you two talked whenever you saw each other. Whether it was in the elevator or right outside the complex. She could be surrounded with friends and still, she sought you out. Two boys in particular looked at you warily when she approached you. It was perhaps the whimsical manner in which she turned to you that bothered them. It was almost as if she forgot they were there. Or perhaps it was the blatant age difference. She was nineteen and you were well into your late twenties. Either way, the brawny, black haired boy and his plump counterpart never took their eyes off you. 

 *

Now,

She steals your clothes. Sometimes right out of your drawers and sometimes right off your body.

"Aren't you supposed to be really frail and skinny like most painters are?" She complains as she drowns in one of your nicer shirts, frowning at the long mirror across the room. She mutters to herself this time, "But no, instead the man is chiseled like a stone even when he hasn't exercised a day in his life. Of course, _of course_."

"Shut up." You always teased with a smile. You're not a massive man, you're actually quite lean compared to other men of your tall height, but your clothes _did_ seem to swallow her whole. Her body, after all, was very lithe, but not frail. Never frail. Her arms were lean and her waist, narrow, but her legs were strong and defined. The round curve of her bottom and the tops of her naked legs were now hidden by the length of the black dress shirt you wore earlier that evening to the art exhibition you contributed to. She had worn a dark blue dress that made her dark hair and pale skin sing. The dress itself looked simple enough; it hit above her knees and it had a very innocuous neckline, but there was an oblong cut out that bared the lonely freckles on her smooth back. Though you preferred her in your clothes, you could not deny how absolutely radiant she looked earlier.

She's caught you staring by the time you snap out of your thoughts. She smirks as she raises her brows in amusement. You ask her to come back to bed, but instead she finishes buttoning your shirt on halfway and turns to you with her hands on her hips.

"No, let's get some  _morozhenoe_ ," Her accent is not as sloppy as it once was when you first taught her the word for 'ice cream' in your native language. She's been practicing. 

" _Morozhenoe,_ " you echo as you lazily get up, "Yes, let's."

*

Back then,

It began with an abundance of beer and greasy Chinese food. It began with a simple invitation on her behalf to go out to dinner. It began with awful weather that forced you both to stay inside and order take-out instead. It began with the knock of an annoyed delivery boy soaked wet and miserable and it began with a smile from said boy when you gave him a generous tip for his trouble. It began with Pulp Fiction being played on TV and it began with an awkward pause of silence during a tampon commercial that made her laugh afterwards. It began with her scooting her body closer to yours and it began when you didn't scoot away, instead you just sat there and felt the heat radiate from her skin. It began when you felt a pair of lips at your cheek and it began when they started to slowly trail to your lips. It began when they landed on your mouth and it began when you kissed her back just as avidly. It began when your tongue found hers and it began when you began to drink her in, tasting the honey from earlier. It began when she ran her fingers through your hair and it began when your hands found her waist. It began when she pulled away eventually just to smile at you. Lovely girl. Sweet girl. _Arya._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been around my drafts and stuff. I've been pretty busy with moving and all. Hopefully I'll write better next time!


End file.
